


drop your holster

by mmtion



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, cop!iris, porn with a bit of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 13:53:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4669049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmtion/pseuds/mmtion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where everything is the same except Joe lost the battle over Iris joining the police academy and Barry regularly drops f-bombs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drop your holster

**Author's Note:**

> first of my desperate attempts to contribute to this growing fandom.

The thing is, and Barry doesn’t want to sound cocky here, but a guy who can turn into a cat-hybrid-thing really shouldn’t be that much of a problem for the almighty Flash. He has a few years of this superhero business under his belt; he’s teamed up with the Arrow, Black Canary, and Vixen, and he doesn’t want to brag, but the Atom totally name-dropped him in an interview once. He’s beaten the Reverse Flash, he’s beaten the Rogues, he’s gotten his dad out of jail.

Point is, it should not have escalated to the point where Barry is bleeding from gashes all across his body and a police blockade has been set up around the street.

“Is that all you’ve got?” The meta-human taunts. The issue is, and really there is no science to explain this and it really fucking sucks, that he has almost unbreakable skin. Cats are not invulnerable - like, he's met Caitlin's cat, and the thing is cuddlier than a teddy bear. Yet Barry can punch as hard as he likes and it’s not helping. Neither is Cisco’s constant annoyance at the non-logic of the situation.

“Maybe he just has nine lives!” is the latest theory echoing through Barry’s earpiece, but Barry hasn’t been counting how many times the meta should have been knocked down, and he’s not sure he’s got the energy left for any more. He’s panting. The blood leaving him is starting to add up to an alarming amount.  It’s started raining, which is always annoying when he’s in the suit because come on, wet leather? Not comfortable.

But then he sees something that makes his core freeze. Iris, in her police uniform, standing straight from where the rest are protected by their open car doors.

The sirens and lights are flashing, enough to illuminate her raised, straight arms, pointing a gun straight at the meta as he stalks towards Barry. A bullet won’t penetrate its skin, but she doesn’t know that. He sinks down to one knee, can’t help himself. Time is slowing but it’s not helpful, it’s awful.

He tries to shake his head at her. She ignores him and even actually stalks around the door to get a better aim. He knows her colleagues are shouting at her to stay back, but good luck with getting Iris West to back down, folks.

It’s new, this thing between them in the superhero sense. She knows he’s the Flash. But this other thing between them, where Barry cannot fucking accept Iris in any kind of pain, hurt, or danger, is pretty old by now.

The gun goes off, and as he would’ve liked to tell Iris a split-second ago, it just ricochets off the meta-human’s head. To give her credit, it was perfect aim. It growls, and slowly, so damn slowly, turns around to stare at its new target.

“Iris,” says Barry, and he can’t quite help the undercurrent of frustration, of ‘oh my god can you fucking not’.

The meta-human takes a step towards Iris, who just fires off another shot, like a super-powered feline isn’t stalking towards her, hackles raised and muscles coils. Barry gets to his feet, because there just isn’t any other option, and runs as fast as he can towards the meta-human.

When he reaches him, he kicks up, kneeing him in the small of his back, hopefully a weak enough point to act as a distraction. As the meta-human turns, growling, ready for another round, Barry straightens his hands and starts vibrating it; this technique is always so gory, which is why no-one ever wants to suggest it, but the results can’t be argued with. He aims for the furry thigh, hoping this can end without death, and as his hand phases through the flesh (which is always such a weird experience and always gives him unwelcome thoughts of stupid Eobard) the meta-human screams. It falls down, clutching its now bloody leg.

Barry steps away, just as the police rush towards them and the meta-human lets out a bloody howl. He looks over all of them and sees Iris’ gaze locked on his. He doesn’t even think about it, he runs towards her at the speed of light and just grabs her. They burst through her apartment, and he skids to a stop. He yanks down his cowl, lets it rest around his neck, hair a mess.

“What the hell?” She exclaims, confused and wild around the edges, probably more scared than she’d admit. “I have to get back.” She tries to storm past him, but he just pushes back, holding her shoulders and slamming them both against the wall.

“Why on earth would you go against a damn meta-human?”

Her eyes are large and her jaw tightens. “Why do you think?” Her arms come up and grip at the waist of his suit, curling at the fabric. Her fingertips graze across an ebbing gash and she withdraws at the sticky feel of it. “Oh, _Barry_.” She always sounds like that when he comes back injured, always that mix of surprised and saddened that his opponents fight back.

“It’s fine,” he says firmly.

“No, it’s not.” She gently pushes at his abdomen, forcing him to take a step back. “Come on, let’s go to the medical cabinet.”

She looks him over gently, uses extra tonics and disinfectants that make him flinch. There’s still adrenaline under his skin, making him more standoffish than he should be.

“I was doing my job,” she eventually says quietly in the dim bathroom.

His costume is pulled down to his waist, leaving him bare-chested. “No, you weren’t.”

She’s finishes patting down a bandages on his shoulder, and her hand trails down, just shy of his nipple and finishing where his trail of fine hair begins. He fights to stop his breath hitching. “No, I wasn’t. I don’t know, Barry, it looked bad, I didn’t even think about it.”

His hand reaches up to clasp her own. “Iris, it’s bad enough for me you go out in that uniform.”

She rolls her eyes, former anger returning. She snatches her hand back. “You and Dad are never going to get over this protective bullshit, are you? You two are allowed to risk your lives to save people, but, what? Iris has to stay home knitting? I don’t think so.”

He runs his hands through his hair in frustration, tangling it further no doubt, and lets out a groan. “Iris, it’s not- I’m not trying to be- I worry. So much.” He finishes lamely. “We both love you so much. I love you.” It’s not news, this. Not even the way he says the main part of the sentence, the way they both know, no matter who he dates or what he denies, that what he confessed at Christmas hasn’t changed. But here’s the thing: something else has changed. Something between then and between breaking up with Eddie and between this moment right now, bathed in moonlight and slightly trembling bodies.

“Barry,” she starts. Her voice cracks. She’s looking at the floor, but if there’s one thing Iris can never be accused of, it’s lacking bravery. She looks back up. He’s so much taller than her.

If asked later, neither are sure who moves in first, which is a dumb cliché Iris used to scoff at, but it’s true. His lips are firm and soft and the scratch of day-old stubble is sensitive against her skin. His bottom lip is plump and its soft movement against hers sends shudders down her spine.

At first they seem content to just move softly, until her hands move up to clench in his hair (she tells him later that his ‘damn costume hair looks like sex, I swear to god’) and it becomes more insistent, hungrier. His hands wrap around her waist, forcing her to go on her tip-toes as he pulls her against him, up towards him. His hips seem to jolt of their own accord, and her ass is pressed back against the edge of the sink, and, well, the suit doesn’t exactly hide how easily he’s gone from zero to a hundred.

Her right leg lifts up almost unconsciously, and he grabs at it, yanks it further so the crook of her knee rests on the plump of his ass. The change in position gives them both something to grind against, and her moan lifts her head back, exposing her neck which he starts kissing, starting at the base of her neck and ending with a loud suck to her collarbone.

“Barry,” she breathes, and it sends a kick through him, a reminder that this is Iris and a fourteen year old Barry Allen is currently aching and flushed and he doesn’t know why. On instinct, he grabs at her other leg and just hoists her up, and to be honest, he’s never been more thankful to the speedforce for giving him biceps. She sits on the lip of the sink and it’s probably uncomfortable but she doesn’t seem to mind, just panting and bruising his lips and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Her fingernails scratch down his back - one scrapes against a bruise but he’ll be damned if he even flinches away from her at this point.

“Why,” he breathes heavily as they rock against each other. “ _Iris_ , why are you still wearing a shirt, oh my god.”

She laughs against him, and leans back slightly to tuck her shirt out of her belt. At some point her radio ended up on the floor - he tries not to panic at the possibilities that could’ve happened if he has pushed against her hips in a different way. Her holster’s still on, but she must have dropped the gun in the road when he grabbed her. And then it’s difficult to worry about that because Iris’s shirt is off and he’s looking at her bra, and this is so, _so_ unbelievably different from when they were kids and he accidentally walked in on her changing.

He kisses her, almost biting her lips in his exuberance. She presses her lace-covered breasts against his chest, and licks into his mouth, and he can taste her smile. His dick is straining against his pants as he reaches around her, strokes down from her shoulder blades and unhooks her bra clasp. In the same movement he moves downwards, kissing at her chin, her neck, back up for another press against her actual-fantasy-come-true lips, and on the swell of one breast. Her fingers spasm in his hair. “Barry,” she says again, reverent, and surely she must know by now what kind of effect that has on him. He grazes his bottom teeth across the black fabric, revelling in the shiver it elicits. He pulls her bra away, dragging it down her arms and then flinging it somewhere behind him.

He knows he shouldn’t be in the least bit surprised that Iris’s breasts are perfect, because the rest of her is, but he’s a man going to church for the first time when he carefully cups them in his hands. She moans his name again, quietly enough to motivate him, and he leans down again to kiss her nipples.

Their thrusts against each other grow more urgent, and as Barry sucks just next to her areola, she reaches blindly down to grab at his belt. Or at least, he assumes she’s going for his belt, except she just kind of grabs his dick, and he lets out an uncontrollable groan against her tits. “Iris.” he says, a touch of frustration edging his tone.

The smirk is evident in her voice and he doesn’t need to look up to confirm the twitch of her lips. “Whoops.”

He can’t let that stand, so, in a split-second, he whips off his trousers and boots and socks, left only in his boxer-briefs. Thank god they’re not red today - he doesn’t think he could stand it right now if she started laughing at his themed underwear. Instead of even grinning, though, as her whipped-up hair settles, she just stares with hunger in her gaze, and reaches out again to stroke the outline of his straining cock.

He melts against her as her grip tightens through the fabric, and bites at her shoulder. He reaches for her jeans and she stands up for a moment so he can pull them down. As he moves the denim, he crouches to mouth at her stomach, the top of her thighs, and her crotch. Her fingers move to tangle in his hair as she arches back. He rubs the heel of her palm against her panties, his expression no doubt one of fascination as she lets out a heady gasp. It’s so quiet, and he’s glad for it so he can listen to her every sound.

One of his fingers, as he rubs gently at her clit through the lace, curls past the fabric to rub against her folds. As he pushes his digit into her, her fingers spasm against his scalp. He pulls out again, prompting a, “Christ, Barry.” She sounds impatient and he can’t help his smile.

He drags her panties down and presses a soft kiss straight on her clit. He has every intent to tease her, to bring her to the brink and watch her tumble over. But god, when have his thoughts ever gone to plan when it comes to Iris? He crooks his finger inside of her and follows it with a harder kiss on her clit and her heavy breaths become pants. His movement inside of her is gentle, because he wants this to be as special for her as it’s going to be for him, but she shows him quickly what she thinks of that when she slings her leg over him and rests her thigh on his shoulder. “Barry,” she says, and he can feel the slight trembling of her body in this position. He rubs around the rim of her vagina, hoping for another gasping repeat of his name, but instead, she says, “Barry, is this the best the Flash can do?”

His gaze flits up to her, takes in her flushed cheeks and wet lips and quirked smile. He grins, because he had been intending to save his party trick for later, but what the lady wants, the lady gets. He pushes another finger inside of her, laps a line along her folds and then lets the speedforce do its work. His hand begins to vibrate, and the shocked, “Oh!” she lets out will be a recurring feature of his dreams for weeks. She jolts, curls over and holds his head where it is. He brings his lips around her clit and sucks gently while pumping in and out of her. It doesn’t take long for her leg to clench against his shoulder blades, and she starts chanting his name, head thrown back. He looks up to watch her face and makes sure to curl his fingers in time with a hard press of his tongue. She lets out a shout, almost bent over him. He eases up on the speed of his fingers but adds a third into her relaxed entrance as she comes down from her orgasm.

She tugs at his hair and he stands. She pulls him close, curls her legs around his hips and he can feel her moisture through his underwear, making him gasp into the hard kiss she tugs him into. She bites down on his bottom lip and whispers, “Barry Allen, you continue to surprise me.” His smile beams at her, because even though this is definitely the sexiest moment of his life, he’s still an uncontrollable dork. The kiss he presses against her lips is soft, as is the caress of her jaw. He leans one hand against the wall, arm locked straight next to her cheek. “Do you know where the condoms are?”

“Um.” He says, because a) his brain isn’t exactly firing on all cylinders and b) he hopes he doesn’t have to run to the nearest drugstore in his boxer-briefs.

He reaches around her to pull open the medicine cabinet, hoping against all hope that Joe didn’t throw the packet away- Success. He pulls them out victoriously, and she laughs. She kicks his ass gently with her heel, and then frowns at his crotch. “You’re still wearing underwear.”

Well, that can be easily remedied. He moves to push them down but she beats him to it, pulling them up and down over his attentive cock. They fall to his ankles and she reaches out to tug, almost experimentally despite how she’d been all for grabbing at it a few moments earlier, at his dick. He bites back the keen that rises from the sight of her delicate fingers around his shaft, and bucks into her hand. “Iris,” he pleads. She smiles, and plucks the condom from him with her other hand. Maintaining eye contact, her brown eyes sparkling, she rips the foil packet and places the condom on the head of his dick. He’s expecting her just to roll it down, which is already enough sensory input to make his breath come fast, but then she pushes him gently a step back to give her some space. He’s confused, worried that she wants to stop, and then she leans over, impossibly flexible, and moves it down with her open mouth. He can’t help the gasp that’s pushed out of him.

If the mayor of Central City ever gives him a medal for saving the city (and he’s not trying to hint or anything, but come on, Supergirl got one and she’s basically still a superhero rookie), he’ll probably say he deserves it more for not coming right there and then.

She sits back up and judging by the grin on her face, she knew exactly what that would do to him. He’s never been able to be playful like this during sex with past girlfriends, and it’s funny that it’s this way when he always thought it would be the most monumental experience for him. So he grins back and picks her bodily up. She hooks her legs and arms around him in surprise as he turns them and pushes her against the blank wall to their right. It shudders with the force of their weight, and a shampoo bottle wobbles off a nearby shelf. Before she can recover, he pushes into her.

His forehead drops to rest against her collarbone, and her fingernails dig into his back. Her head falls back to knock against the wall as he starts to shift, lost in the wet heat of her. He thrusts once, to test it out, and they groan together. He starts to roll his hips more regularly, starting up a pattern that makes her toes curl. He reaches up to tug the flesh of her ear with his teeth; her eyes are closed and her plush lips fall open.

It’s intense; the part of him that’s been fantasising about it had always kind of worried it would be anticlimactic after so much fretting. But it’s easy, and natural, and when she cries out with her second orgasm, he tumbles straight after her. He has to brace his hands against the wall around her to stop them both falling to the floor as he comes with a bitten-back shout.

He eases out of her and she gingerly releases her legs to land on the balls of her feet. He tosses away the condom in the bathroom trash can, makes a mental note to get rid of it before Joe comes home, and then turns back to Iris. It should be awkward, and for a second he thinks it will be, but she just smiles that smile of hers and pulls him to her. She reaches up on tip toes and kisses him. His hands flutter nervously, despite all that they’ve just done, before curling around her waist. “Come to bed,” she says.

“Like when we were kids?” he jokes and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

She clearly bites back a smile, and looks him dead in the eye to say, “No, Barry, nothing like when we were kids.”

“Right.” Then he gets its. “ _Oh_ , right.” He lets her tug him towards her bedroom and she pretends not to notice the way his wide, cat-got-the-cream grin is threatening to split his face in two.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: currently looking for a beta reader for a new westallen fic I'm writing (a Four Weddings and a Funeral AU), so please find me on tumblr (marvelmasturbation) if you're up for it!


End file.
